Downstream seven miles, the shipmate on a wool barge discovered Achilles’ corpse tangled in the exposed roots of a lilly pilly tree.

4.

After their divorce Lucky and Valia met again on several occasions. Their meeting at Achilles’ funeral in 1965 can be described briefly, because they barely exchanged a word. The service was held at St Constantine Greek Orthodox church. After the burial at Rookwood Cemetery, Lucky approached Valia to say he had tried to help her father. She said she was glad he tried. For years already Lucky had been in regular mental contact with her: for years he’d received make-believe consultations from her, imagined guidance about the franchise, advice about the way he dressed and the character of the people he met. More recently he tried to imagine Valia’s house and his mind flashed to a garden, a view of water, and a child saying, Mummy? At the cemetery he said she looked good, and Valia did not smile. In the background stood her husband, whose existence was still difficult for Lucky to welcome or even acknowledge, whose name—Robert—he would have chosen to forget, if that were possible. And her daughter, Sophia, almost two years old, did she wave at Lucky after the funeral service? She waved. Goodbye.

Chapter 18: 1971

1971

1.

In the first week of August, Valia received the following letter:

Dear Valia,

Twenty-odd years ago I gave your former husband all the money I possessed in the world. You and he didn’t squander that gift as I have squandered all of my gifts, such as they are.

I have not included my address on this letter because I’ve decided to take my life soon. Please do not try to contact my family.

But I owe you the truth. This is difficult to write. For a long time I’ve lived with my crime, and the shame has been unremitting and crushing. The truth is that I’m responsible for the death of your sister, Penelope. In effect, I killed her.

I am responsible for the fire at the Cafe Achillion. But I did NOT intend to kill anyone. My objective was vandalism. I wanted only to damage your business because you and Lucky appeared happy, and to me, at that time, the happiness of others felt like a great injustice. These days I feel differently: my unhappiness is a form of justice. A great deal of my life has been a disaster, but nothing I’ve done was worse than the death of Penelope. I could not regret a thing more.

I suppose I am a murderer. I gave you that money out of guilt, thinking I could unburden myself.

You should be aware that I have written an identical letter to Lucky. I am aware you are no longer married.

The truth, I hope, has some value.

Live in peace.

Ian Asquith

2.